


When The Roses Die

by thelilacfield



Category: How to Get Away with Murder
Genre: Angst, Ghosts, Grief/Mourning, Inspired by A Christmas Carol, M/M, Past Character Death, Redemption, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-01-06
Updated: 2015-01-06
Packaged: 2018-03-06 10:43:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,619
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3131624
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thelilacfield/pseuds/thelilacfield
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>'Wesley Gibbins - 1984-2011. Beloved son, friend, fiancé. Rebecca Sutter - 1986-2011. Paxton Curtis - 1984-2012. A son, a brother, a lover.' - Three deaths undid him. Now, three ghosts will attempt to help him, as the hourglass runs out of sand.</p>
            </blockquote>





	When The Roses Die

Inspired by the fantastic [A Christmas Carol AU](http://thekeatingpack.tumblr.com/tagged/Coliver-christmas-carol/chrono) by [thekeatingpack](http://thekeatingpack.tumblr.com) on tumblr.

 **Additional warnings:** discussion of past suicide, gang-related violence

* * *

**5 weeks until Christmas**

The wind whistles through the boughs of the trees, like skeletons with their leaves stripped away in the cold. Last night's frost glistens on the rough bark, perfect and untouched in the winter sunlight, barely more than a sheen on the darkness when the clouds veil the sun. Grass, thick with snow, crunches beneath his feet as he walks through the iron gates, the night guard tipping his hat in acknowledgement of the polystyrene cup laid at his feet. It's eight thirty in the morning. Almost time for him to change over, go home to his wife and help his children ready themselves to face the day. He watches the man step over the threshold as he sips the scalding tea, the way his shoulders shudder as he pulls in a deep breath, and once again vows to at least ask the name of this man he sees every week, like clockwork. A man wearing a perfectly tailored suit, simply reeking of wealth, with the clear skin and thick hair of a young man but the heavy eyes of someone much older, three bouquets of roses in his hands. The last before winter closes its claws into the flower beds and kills everything.

The three tombstones Connor is searching for are set behind a white angel, guarding them with her outstretched arms and curved wings, her face serene, hair haloed by snow. He ducks beneath one arm and stares down at the black marble, still perfect after only a few years, the gold lettering gleaming against the white winter landscape.  _Wesley Gibbins - 1984-2011. Beloved son, friend, fiancé._ He lays the dark pink roses at the base of his grave. Gratitude.  _Rebecca Sutter - 1986-2011._   _Daughter, sister, friend._ The yellow roses. Friendship.  _Paxton Curtis - 1984-2012. A son, a brother, a lover._  Red roses. Love.

Shedding his heavy coat, Connor lays it on the snow-blanketed ground, the sound muffled by the cloying grasp of winter, and sits down in front of the three graves. He chose their position, burying these three next to each other, the way they stood next to each other in his heart, each occupying their own space, but indelibly connected. The angel watches over them, the statue he chose and paid for, keeping them safe even when the great tree weeping over them has shed its copper leaves. "It's almost Christmas," he says softly, knuckles trailing over the earth where he imagines Pax's handsome face is, in repose just beneath the soil. Merely sleeping. "This time is always...hard for me, I guess. It's when I lost you."

Wind whistling greets his words, and he glances at Wes' gravestone with a slight smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. "At least we had a good last Christmas together, huh? The Bahamas and their hospitality. And you were gonna get married with the next one. Said you didn't see any more point in delaying it. Don't know why you were so reluctant in the first place. I would've helped you pay for every bit of it." Shifting again, he apologetically says, "I didn't mean to steal your wedding day. But I was so low after the funeral, Pax," he smiles at the third grave, the newest one, "suggested it, and I went along. Guess neither of us was ever destined to get to marry someone we loved."

"The company is doing well," he continues, the fingers of one hand, in their luxurious leather gloves, tugging idly at strands of frozen grass. "Having Annalise on board really helps with the case, I'm glad you started talks with her. I still can't believe it took a year and a half to pull her on board, but at least we got there in the end. She did it because of you. You inspired her." His chest hurts with the effort of swallowing the tears, his eyes prickling hot, and he shakes his head, chin digging into his chest as he stares at the shiny toes of his shoes until the gut-clenching panic stops whirling around him like a swarm of wasps. "I have to go. I'll come see you again next week."

He tugs off one glove and traces the letters of each name with shaking fingers, a ritual that makes him feel as if there's still some part of them in the air, holding them in his heart and keeping them safe. The way he used to incessantly call Wes' phone to hear his voice, leaving long messages until his parents finally cancelled the number. The way he used to wander into their bathroom and take out the bottle of Pax's cologne and clutch it to his chest. The way he used to go to Wes and Rebecca's apartment while the landlord was still desperately trying to sell it, look up at the door Rebecca painted dark deep blue and remember the days when she would rush out to greet him, eyes bright.

The clang of the gates closing behind him is so final, and, just for a second, Connor stares up at the winter sky and lets a few tears fall. But not enough to make his eyes red-rimmed and swollen, or his skin blotchy, or his breath catch in a throat raw from crying. He climbs back into his sleek car, the windows tinted dark so no one can know what he's doing in there, and drives to work, Christmas songs drifting quietly from the radio and the lights tangled around every building flashing past, red and green and white and gold.

As he walks into the reception, a reverential hush seems to fall over the building that houses the Gibbins and Walsh law firm, every eye on him. Lila, his pretty auburn-haired assistant - Rebecca's best friend, who Connor vaguely remembers crying desperate, rasping sobs at the funeral, now occupying a position that Pax once did - immediately starts fussing about in her desk drawers when he walks into his enormous office, eyes blown wide and colour drained from her cheeks. "Here's the file you wanted, Mr. Walsh," she says, her voice steady but her hand with its bitten nails trembling as she holds the thick beige pile out to him. "Ms. Keating called eight minutes ago to say that she will be here with her associate at ten thirty."

"Miss Stanguard, how many times do I have to tell you that all calls from Ms. Keating should be directed immediately to my mobile?!" Connor explodes, even though he knows it's silly. Without Wes to charm and flatter their employees, without Rebecca to join in with Connor's bitching over mugs of coffee during long, luxurious lunch breaks, without Pax to greet him in the morning with a kiss and a perfectly organised itinerary, he has no one to turn to, no one to help him be his most charming, effusive self. Lila can't replace Pax, any more than the next most senior worker, Asher, can replace Wes, or his blonde girlfriend can replace Rebecca.

Lila jumps out of her seat, enormous eyes wet with tears, pink-tinted mouth quivering as she says, "You asked not to be disturbed before nine o'clock, sir," she says, her voice tremulous and a little higher than usual with fear. "I'll patch her through next time, sir."

"I'm not interested in what you'll do next time, I want you to remember what I tell you!" Connor snaps at her, and it's as if his words are a blade twisting in her skin, the way she winces and bites her lip and drops her gaze, nervously straightening a paperweight, the other hand balled into a fist to hide the fact that she's trembling. "I want Mr. Hampton in my office in no less than five minutes. And call Ms. Keating's assistant to find out what she and Ms. Winterbottom want for lunch, and order it. You know my preference." Lila nods frantically, diving for the phone as if she can't wait for the conversation to end. "And Lila?" He slams the drafted memo down on her desk. "Distribute this to all the staff."

She looks up at him, and he can see a trace of the fire she had in her before Rebecca's death, anger flashing across her eyes. "You can't cancel our Christmas party! People have already made arrangements for hotels and childcare! We've paid the deposit on the venue!"

"I'll do what I want, and my employees will have to deal with it," Connor snarls, and she sinks into her chair. No doubt she'll be straight on to her friends in all the other departments, mumbling angrily about their horrible boss. He'd rather have a reputation for pushing his employees too hard for too little reward than being a pushover. Ignoring her icily, he slams the door to his office loudly behind him, hiding behind the white walls and the imposing desk of dark wood.

This room seems so much bigger, so much empty space for the wind to whistle through, without Wes occupying another desk, typically accompanied by Rebecca, sitting in one of the armchairs and making a nuisance of herself while they were staring at photocopies of police reports with gritted teeth and fingers clenched around a mug of coffee. Now he has no one to think aloud to as he reads information until his vision blurs, no one to keep him amused with pinching, prodding, bitchy remarks about other people in the building, no one to ensure he eats lunch and drinks something other than coffee and goes home to his fiancé instead of working at his desk through the nights. He's never felt lonelier than he does, sitting at his desk and cut off from the world, a world of employees who hate him because they just don't understand.

The knock on his door is gentle, familiar, and he doesn't bother to tell the culprit to come in, but crosses the room to open the door and drag Oliver inside, making him stumble on the thick carpet that hides so many secrets. "What do you want?" he asks, but it's not angry and frustrated. His voice soothes the flames of discontent that flare up in Connor's chest, chases away the shadows of the past and the ghosts that haunt his heart, and he unwinds in his presence, stretching and sighing contentedly.

Sliding his hands into Oliver's pockets, Connor watches his face as he tugs out keys and wallet and phone, staring into his eyes as the first glaze of arousal drifts across them. "You know what I want," he murmurs, in that voice that Pax helped him to perfect, that one that sounds like liquid sex, that makes Oliver's breath hitch and Connor's smirk grow. As he sets Oliver's belongings in the armchair - they've fucked there, breathless and sweating and scratching at each other, where Rebecca used to sit telling lawyer jokes in her deadpan monotone while he and Wes worked, Connor pushing away the memories with violent snaps of his hips and his teeth buried in Oliver's shoulder - he notices a text flash in, from Asher:  **Tell your not-so-secret boyfriend to increase our Christmas bonuses. This is just ridiculous, it's pittance for how hard he makes us work.**

Grinning wickedly to himself, Connor presses the button on his intercom, toying innocently with Oliver's tie as he says, "Lila, I don't want to be disturbed until Ms. Keating arrives. I don't want to greet her with nothing new to offer." She doesn't acknowledge him - probably sulking about the cancelled Christmas party, and the dashed dreams of getting mildly tipsy on shitty wine and groping in the corner with one of the attractive young interns - but he knows she hears him. Locking his office door, he smoothly says, "You can slip out when she leaves for her smoke break and gossip. It's always at ten o'clock. Gives us forty minutes." Pressing his mouth to the shell of Oliver's ear, watching the colour flood into his cheeks as he bites very gently, Connor whispers, "But I know you never last that long," and hears the first, faint whimper.

Sex used to be something to luxuriate in, enjoyed at the end of a long day, flickering candles and newly-washed sheets and dinner warming in the oven while Pax's gentle hands rubbed oil into his aching muscles, knotted with stress, leaving him relaxed enough for Pax to simply slide into him, lips warm on the back of Connor's neck. They'd been together so long, they were past that first stage of desire, lightning-quick and hot as lava, whiplashing through their blood and leaving them to rip thin fabrics and pull off buttons as soon as they were alone. Sex was sweet and loving and tender, even when they were rough, even when there were finger-shaped bruises on Connor's hips that Pax would match his hands to when Connor stood at the mirror, shirtless and brushing his teeth, Pax's lips on his neck.

After Wes and Rebecca were murdered, buried in the ground, when the black Connor wore to the office had become death and mourning, covering him like a cloud covered the sun, Pax was there for him to lean on. 'A tower of strength', as his mother might say. Making sure he was taking care of himself, eating and sleeping and living, not just burying himself in work and coffee to forget the horror of his two best friends being murdered. That was the time that Connor was most sure of Pax's love for him, that the matching silver rings on their hands had been the right decision, when he knew just how strongly Pax cared for him. Despite his overwhelming sadness at his loss, the summer brought brightness with it - planning their wedding, endless confessions and surprises for each other, wondering aloud if they would have a family in ten years and smiling into each other's eyes around children.

But when Pax killed himself, there was no one there to catch Connor when he fell into despair. On his wedding day, he had worn the suit he'd brought, then laid Pax's out on their bed, the mattress still dented where he'd slept every night, the sheets smelling of him, and cried, smashing pictures and drinking himself into a stupor. That night, he'd wandered into the nearest bar and picked up the man who looked the most like Pax, following him home and fucking him into the door, hiding his tears in broad shoulders and snarling when the nameless sex suggested he stay the night.

Sex isn't love or tenderness or romance. Sex isn't flowers and candles and massages and soft kisses like exquisite rose petals. Sex is animal, primal, carnal. Sex is a basic instinct, a desire to see someone spread out and begging beneath him, scratched and bruised and scarred from him, a ring of teeth marks on their shoulder and dark shadows beneath their eyes from too little sleep - or none at all. Sex is when he can forget the horrors of his past, the loneliness twisting like a knife in his gut, the days when everything is black and he cries and breaks glass. Sex is when he can simply concentrate on naked skin for him to explore, to lick and bite and suck, reducing some strong man to a whining, begging mess, sweat-streaked skin and desperate pleas. Sex is when he can force his way into someone else's heart, just for a night, a night of exclaiming desire and twisting limbs and dark, wanting eyes. Sex is when he can forget how much his own heart aches and bleeds, and be ruled by the desires of his gut, by the white-hot turn of excitement and his hips thrusting in time with his heart.

"Get your clothes off," he snaps at Oliver now, opening the file and sitting down in his padded chair, flipping nonchalantly through the police reports and grainy photos of suspects. After eighteen months of their arrangement, he knows Oliver's body the way he knows this file, knows where the secret freckles are and the thin skin on his ribcage that he has only to brush his fingertips against to make Oliver thrash and whine high in his throat. He's upset Oliver at times, made him shout and storm out and ignore his smirks and stripping looks, but Oliver always come crawling back with an apology on his perfect lips. On a rare night out together, after Asher's girlfriend ran off and dropped him from a high-flying plane without a parachute, a drunk Asher once made reference to Connor having a magical penis when an old flame from the dark, horrible days following Pax's death recognised him - and now, Connor thinks it could be true. He's never doubted his abilities in bed, and Oliver has only confirmed them.

"Connor." It's not a question, because Oliver is rarely demanding. He never pushes, even though he has no idea of the horrible past he is helping Connor to forget for this brief half-hour interludes. Glancing up, Connor smirks into Oliver's eyes, and gracefully climbs to his feet, crossing the room to him and sliding his glasses off.

"Perfect," he says, oh so quiet. It seems to echo in the room, reverberating like a heartbeat, and Oliver is staring at him with that transparent joy that seems infused into his blood, his quivering limbs and shining eyes and warm mouth, so welcoming when Connor kisses him, his arms sliding around Connor's neck, their eyelashes tangling. And that makes it almost terrifyingly real, evokes memories of lazy mornings in bed and hiding in doorways from pounding rain and laughing over food with their friends, so Connor moves away quick as a bullet, unbuttoning his blazer.

"Let me help," Oliver says gently, and steps closer, unknotting Connor's tie and smoothing the silk as he slides it out from beneath Connor's collar. The hiss of material on material is too loud, and Connor shakes his head a little, smirks and lets his eyes take on that wicked gleam. But he still feels vulnerable, shaken by memories, and it's as if Oliver senses this. He moves Connor backwards, with those sucking kisses to the hollow of his throat and his Adam's apple that make his eyelids flutter and guttural groans fill the silence, and pushes him down into his chair. "Let me," Oliver repeats, even softer this time, and starts to unbutton Connor's shirt with the kind of gentleness that takes patience and understanding.

It's not enough. Slowly and sweetly doesn't blot out the pain, he just looks down at the dark head and it hurts, chest clenching and heart breaking all over again, and he can't cope. He needs rough and fast, born out of lust. Passion, romance, tenderness - it all died the morning he woke to an empty bed and police at his door. He shoves past Oliver's hands to unbuckle his own belt, shoving his pants down with a desperation that seeps into his bones, his breathing coming heavier and heartbeat picking up the pace. "Stop messing around," he snaps, and Oliver looks wounded, naked and on his knees at Connor's feet. "Don't give me that look. If you don't want to do this, you can go back to work and earn your bonuses."

Oliver scowls at him, eyes smouldering with momentary anger, but that doesn't stop him from sinking his mouth around Connor's cock, making him see stars. One hand falls to the back of Oliver's head, fingers curling into his hair and tugging, and the little pleasure-pain whimpers he lets out send frissons of electricity up Connor's spine and he growls, tugging harder. " _Christ_ ," he hisses, and makes no more sound. Doesn't beg for more, for fingers on the insides of his thighs and between his cheeks, hipbones pressing into his ass the way he remembers, for fingerprint bruises on his hips and dark teeth marks on his spine. Doesn't say  _I need this I need you I need this_. Doesn't sob with arousal and gratitude and the hopeless memories invading his mind and pressing on his stomach. Doesn't plea to be taken apart, because somewhere in amber whiskey and strange mouths and grabbing hands he put his shattered self back together in the wrong way. Doesn't say any of this strange internal monologue aloud, only stares at Oliver in silence, admiring his dark eyelashes against his flushed cheeks, his lips kissed pink and shiny with saliva.

"Get up here," he snaps suddenly, and Oliver obeys immediately, eyes dazed and lips turned up in a smirk. Connor kisses the pride right off his mouth, tasting himself on Oliver's lips and leans back with lazy lust in his eyes and his wantonly parted thighs. "Over the desk," he says, demands, and Oliver's chest rises and falls in a sharp inhale and exhale. " _Now_."

As he retrieves the half-full bottle of lube from its hiding place in a compartment of his briefcase, he has an absurd thought that he should give Oliver salmon roses, put them on his desk the way he places them gently on Pax's grave. Salmon for desire, he remembers. Or coral. He and Rebecca wasted away hours fighting over the colour, back when he first began to buy roses for every occasion. Pax loved that, called it his best quirk, and kissed him for every red rose. That summer, before the murders, Connor even committed that cardinal corny sin, gifting his fiancé with eleven real red roses and one fake one, and promising, "I will love you until the last rose dies." He regretted it as soon as a touched but teasing Pax told Rebecca.

Oliver lets out a moan as soon as Connor touches him - he knows as well as anyone that it can be the anticipation that really makes sex exciting. "You look so good like this," he says, plastering himself to Oliver's back and tracing the curve of his ear with his tongue. Oliver lets out a quiet whine and wriggles beneath him.

Sex is the click of the cap, Oliver's back arching, his knuckles white on the edge of the desk, body slack and pliable beneath Connor. Sex is warm skin slick with sweat, Connor stretched out over Oliver, kissing his shoulders. Sex is their bodies pressed together, the desk squeaking slightly, and the momentum growing quicker. Fucking is when Oliver moans Connor's name and goes quiet and limp beneath him, and Connor snapping his hips for another minute, just to show off, before he allow himself to come with no more than a whine through clenched teeth. He won't show how much he wants Oliver, because it's the cool that keeps him perpetually running back. He hasn't been passionate with another man since the suicide.

"Out," he orders, taking his neatly folded clothes and vanishing into his bathroom - the greatest perk of being the boss. Let Oliver clean himself up with scratchy tissues, and maybe slip into the employee bathroom, trying to be quiet and quick so no one will know what he's been up to. Connor can take a luxurious shower and get ready with the sample-size bottles of all his favourite products that he keeps in the office. When he emerges, ten minutes before Annalise and Bonnie arrive, it's with freshly-gelled hair and the scent of his spicy cologne clinging to him, clean of the sharp scents of sweat and sex.

He lights a cigarette, and opens the door to the balcony clinging like icy to the side of the building, the cold December air rushing in and sweeping away all scents other than cool and crisp, ruffling the papers on the desk and making him shudder. After five minutes, he closes them again, and lazily turns the heating up, curling into his chair and saying, "Lila, go and make coffee for our guests. Make sure I know when they arrive, and don't forget to order lunch for one o'clock."

Turning his chair to face the window and looking out at grey building against the steely sky, workers in luminous vests perched like birds on the rooftops, he lights another cigarette, inhaling deeply and letting the smoke sink into his lungs. This habit has cushioned him through bad days, and it feels appropriate for someone who has a reputation for being a pushy boss and a shameless playboy.

"That's a filthy habit," comes a reproachful voice, and Connor turns his chair to face Bonnie, standing in the doorway with her hands on her hips, one eyebrow lifted, as if he's still the law student she was the boss of in the old days, instead of a fellow professional with a firm to rival hers.

"Not as filthy as drinking on the job," he retorts, and stubs out the cigarette with a welcoming smile, crossing the room to kiss her cheek, knowing she leaves an imprint of her crimson lipstick behind on his skin when she does the same. "I'm going to fire my receptionist, I didn't know you were on your way up. My assistant should be bringing us coffee soon."

"Sweet girl," Annalise says, as if that surprises her, sweeping in tall and elegant and imposing. "Far too sweet to be bossed around by you. At least your fiancé was getting sex as well as a salary." Connor doesn't rise to her comment - Annalise Keating lives above the law that governs mere mortals, and takes a seat on the white leather couch without removing her coat, setting her copy of the file down on the glass table with a thud.

Lila comes in a few minutes later, mugs rattling slightly on the tray with her shaking hands, and sets it down on the table. As she leaves, she gives Connor such a glare that even Annalise seems impressed. "Inspiring hatred worthy of a good lawyer," she says, and Connor smirks at her. "I'm proud of you, Mr. Walsh."

"Are there any new leads on the case?" Connor asks, picking up his mug of coffee. His critics sneer and say he's allowing his personal interest in the case  _Gibbins and Walsh_  has been working on for three years to cloud his judgement. To them, he would raise a middle finger and say that of course he's interested in solving the case that got his two best friends killed.

"None, I'm afraid," Bonnie says, lifting the cover and allowing the papers to spill out over the table. "Every time we think we're getting closer, we just run into a dead end. Right now, long-distance pictures of the heads of the gang are all we have. No one has come forward to say they know more than what these pictures tell us. People are still dying because of this."

Annalise's face is curiously still, like a statue, as she says, "Shooting last night. An unidentified man was killed." Connor knows what she's thinking - that it's her husband, who disappeared in the summer after they had a fight, and hasn't returned since. She's going through the same thing he did, but with the gut-wrenching pang of uncertainty, and moments of hope interspersed with despair. At least, for him, he knew instantly that there was no chance Pax could still be alive.

"Sam's probably just gone home to Florida, Annalise, to put in some distance and really figure himself out," Bonnie says reassuringly, and then turns a photograph to face Connor. "This is the clearest picture we have of any of the gang members. But a brunette man of average height who could be anywhere between twenty-five and forty is never going to be easy to find. Connor, we have to start facing the possibility that one day, this trail could go cold."

"No!" Connor protests vehemently, and picks up the copy of the autopsy report on Wes and Rebecca's bodies. "They were shot by someone who was left-handed. That eliminates ninety percent of suspects for one of the gang members. We know the gun they used, maybe they gained access to it through black market arms dealers who might be willing to talk. We can't stop until we've turned over every single stone and found out who killed Wes and Rebecca."

"Connor, you're letting your emotions influence you too much," Annalise says, eyes lingering on the smouldering cigarette butt in the glass ash tray. "You're self-destructing and pouring far too much of yourself into this case. We understand how you feel about this, but you have to think logically. It's the only way."

"This gang cost me my two best friends, and the fallout cost me the love of my life!" Connor shouts. He's raised his voice to Annalise before, but he's never felt the anger simmering down his spine, choking him, a sour taste in his mouth brought on by sheer fury. "I am completely emotionally invested in this case. I want to find out who murdered Wes and Rebecca! Forgive me for loving people!"

His chair creaks when he stands and storms out onto the balcony, slamming the doors behind him. Winter envelopes him as soon as his feet crunch against the layer of ice, the whistling wind and creeping grey clouds and the cold that fills the air. His breath spins up in white plumes, but his hands barely shake as he lights another cigarette, leaning on the intricate railing and watching the world go by, so far beneath him. Cars like multi-coloured bugs, crawling along the street, and people, umbrellas blooming like mushrooms from the dark suits and bowed heads as icy rain sweeps along the street, flattering his hair to his head and dripping down his cheeks.

It's been three years since the phone call that ended his life as he knew it before Wes and Rebecca died. Two years since he awoke to a series of texts repeating  _I'm sorry_  and a note on the kitchen counter and police and press swarming like mosquitoes when he stepped outside, barely able to see for tears and flashbulbs. He knows he's being unreasonable, shouting at anyone who crosses him and being moody and withdrawn so much of the time, but he found his shell again when he lost three people he loved so much. They brought him out and made him better, made him peel off the mask, and since they left his life, the mask is back. Some days it takes him over, when his grip on himself slips, and maybe one day there won't be anything left of him. Just the angry, brooding, promiscuous lawyer, a boss everybody hates and a lover who leaves men in the dust.

Taking his phone out of his pocket, the screen bright as Christmas lights in the grey day, he calls Lila's desk number, breathing deeply in an attempt to loosen the knots of stress and anger and misery that plague him. "I'd like you to decorate my office, Miss Stanguard," he says when she picks up, and he can see her eyebrows lowering, the crease appearing between them, her mouth stubbornly set and her shoulders squared in anger. "And take a long lunch. Go meet your golden boy."

When she hangs up - and he hopes she'll be wearing an amazed expression, the kind that greets the sun coming out after a solid week of rain and grey skies - he calls Oliver's desk. "Hi," he says quietly, gently. "Sorry I kicked you out so hastily, can't be seen to be screwing my own employees. I need you to work overtime tonight - say, my place? Six o'clock?"

"Could I go ahead?" Oliver asks, almost shyly. "I need to shower, and there's nowhere to do it in the office. I'm supposed to finish at five, so you could wait and tie up a few loose ends and then meet me there. Will I be able to experience the pleasure of your cooking?"

"Please, I rarely cook for myself," Connor says, and smiles when he hears Oliver's rough laugh down the phone. "It'll be Chinese takeout for two, unless you want to pull the foil off the lasagna my aunt brought me last time she visited. She puts chilli powder in the sauce."

"Sounds adventurous," Oliver says, and Connor laughs, sagging against the railing in relief. Conversations like this are so easy, casual and holding that slight ring of intimacy. It reminds him of times half-forgotten. "Drop your key in my tray when you go to collect your lunch and I'll meet you at your place. It's a date."

Connor stands on the balcony for ten more minutes, until his cigarette is almost burnt out, then he stubs it out in the snow gathering on the railings, and runs his fingers through his wet hair before turning back into the office. Annalise and Bonnie are both waiting patiently, neither outwardly concerned, both staring at him with those unnervingly probing eyes they've both perfected over the years. "My apologies," he says. "This case is just very important to me. I've been tangled up in this for three years now - it gets to you."

"I understand your feelings of loss, Connor," Annalise says, one of the rare times he's ever heard her use his first name, her voice so soft and understanding, the pain in her eyes undeniable. "I know how it feels to think that your work has taken someone away from you. You're a good lawyer - that's undeniable. We wouldn't be sitting in your office in your building if you weren't. But if you want to be a great lawyer, you must save your emotions for the courtroom. When we bring this gang down and have the leader in chains, you will be encouraged to show your feelings at Wes and Rebecca's deaths. Until then, you must divorce yourself from feeling."

They stare each other down for a second, but Connor breaks first, looking down and away from her with a quiet, "Of course." Pulling his own copy of the file towards him, the pictures spilling out onto the table, an infuriating puzzle, he takes out a report and stares at the cramped rows of type. "You'll leave today with more answers than we have now."

Lunch comes and gos, plates in the small spaces between their reports and photographs, bites in between thinking aloud, trying to come up with greater and more feasible theories, to identify blurry faces in long-distance photographs, to somehow fill a gap with something that could lead to a capture. But they have nothing, after four long hours, and Connor bids Annalise and Bonnie a polite goodbye with disappointment leaden in his stomach. Wes would've found something. He was always a genius at finding the hidden picture, joining the dots together to find a criminal, pulling pieces of thread together into a tapestry of the crime. That's what got him killed in the first place.

His apartment is quiet when he goes back to it, but the lights are on and the door unlocked. Exhausted suddenly, he drops his keys into the shallow bowl next to his door and sinks into one of his armchairs, unknotting his tie and letting the warmth embrace him, sinking into it. The sound of the bathroom door opening is jarring, and for a moment he thinks he's hallucinating, or dreaming. The scent that sweeps over him is familiar, that spice of ginger, and he turns around in hope for a second. Maybe the last two years have been a hideous dream, the last three even, falling asleep in the chair after a long day, and now he'll see Pax and they'll kiss and be ready to get married and Wes and Rebecca will be there, and one day all their children will play together.

"I found a half-full bottle in your bathroom, I hope you don't mind me borrowing a little," Oliver says, and Connor sags, half-formed dreams and desperate hopes shattered. His senses are reeling, and he stares at Oliver with his throat corded with muscle, trying desperately not to cry. "Connor? Are you alright?"

Taking a deep breath, steadying himself, yet still feeling as if he's staring down the side of a tall building and wondering whether to jump, Connor says, "I made a mistake inviting you here. I'm not ready. We could go to your place, or we could do this another night."

"No, please, we'll go to my place," Oliver says, and smiles at Connor with such tenderness that his heart wrenches, remembering smiles on another face as fingers slid between his. "Leave your car, I'll take you. Just let me call the Chinese place and tell them to change the delivery address." Kissing the fleshy spot beneath Connor's ear, fingers digging into hip to make heat steal up his spine, Oliver says, "I know how you like your food."

Love is a vortex, Connor decides on the car ride through the dark, watching lights and gaudy decorations streaming by. It drags you down, no matter how much you want to cling to solid ground, and it never lets you go. He'll never stop loving Pax - crying on the days that meant something to them, flinching when he hears a song they danced to, almost having a panic attack when he smells his cologne on somebody else. Before Pax, he never could've imagined himself being faithful to someone - they were friends and never lovers. But slowly, oh so slowly, he fell in love, and Pax caught him. They were together for eight years - some people don't get even that long with someone they truly love. He was blessed to have that, and he shouldn't be selfish and want more. But he does - he'd sell his soul for one more minute, to memorise the scars that split his skin and the way his eyelashes brushed his cheeks and the perfect colour of a vivid lovebite against his flushed neck.

He can't eat much, toying endlessly with his food, throat constricted by memories of dawn kisses and an arm around his waist in the dark confusion of clubs, someone there to go home with. If Oliver notices anything amiss, he doesn't say anything. He sits, makes quiet, infrequent conversation, but seems content with the silence. It's companionable and easy, and it scares the shit out of Connor. Maybe that's why he lays their leftovers aside, leaves the fortune cookies untouched, and drags Oliver to bed, putting his glasses on the nightstand and kissing him when he opens his mouth to protest.

Connor thinks about staying, all things said and done. He thinks about lying next to Oliver, maybe slinging an arm across him, waking up with warm breath on the back of his neck. Thinks about making breakfast together, or alternating eating and showering, moving around each other like it's a choreographed dance, going to work together and not caring what people think of them walking in side by side.

But God, it terrifies him. The idea of intimacy, now, chokes him up with cold fear. Climbing out of bed and reaching for his clothes, he says, "I should go home. Don't want any business partners to try to reach me, not with solving the case at such a crucial point." It's a standard excuse, one he's used a hundred times before - the case has been stagnant for two years.

"I was wondering," Oliver says, sitting up with the sheet covering his lap, sleepy-eyed with desire and smiling languidly. "Do you want to come with me to celebrate Christmas? We could go to California. You could maybe even meet my family, if you're up to it."

Buttoning his shirt with swift fingers, used to leaving quickly with someone still lying in bed warm from his hands, Connor says, "Hate to break it to you, Oliver, but we're nothing more than fuck buddies. Whatever you think is going on, forget it. It's not going to happen."

"Get out." That shocks him, the cold, clear, concise words, and when he turns there's fire in Oliver's eyes, and he's sitting up straighter than before, angrier than Connor's ever seen him. "You heard me. I said leave." He rolls his eyes, and the indifference is frightening. "Whatever the fuck is going on in your head, Connor, I can't play second fiddle to it any more. This thing between us is over. It should've ended after the first time you disappointed me."

"Oliver..."

" _Leave_!" And then Oliver's standing, piling the rest of Connor's belongings into his arms, and forcing him backwards through the apartment, out through the open doors. "And I'm resigning tomorrow. Congratulations, Mr. Walsh. You just lost yourself an employee, and probably the one person in that building who actually gives a shit about your feelings!"

The door slamming rings through Connor's body like a gunshot, and he stands in the hallway for a long time, not yet fully-dressed, the cold concrete numbing his feet, the pressure on his chest building. Swearing quietly to himself - another coping mechanism - he finds his phone in the jumble of belongings and calls for a taxi.

His bed seems insufferably cold that night, as he tosses and turns until dawn.

* * *

**4 weeks until Christmas**

"So where do you work?" This woman is very obviously flirting with him, and very obviously a few years younger than him. It's obvious in her self-conscious posture, the heavy make-up, the dress cut an inch too low and a little too tight. But she seems sweet, now that her hair is in her face and her lipstick chewed off, and she's actually listening. And after a hellish day - a hellish  _week_ , a week of letting people down - he needs to talk to somebody.

"Connor." The voice is familiar, but it's not him repeating his name again. Which, after as many drinks as he's had, he wouldn't be surprised if he did. Now, it's a voice he's almost forgotten. Familiar, and, now, heart-breaking.

And God, there's Wes, sitting on a barstool in one of his flannel shirts, the same glint in his eye and set mouth, determined. He's staring straight at Connor, without a drink in his hand, and comes closer when he blinks. "Long time, no see," he says. "I bring a warning, Connor. You've changed so much. Too much. You're not the man I knew anymore. But you can be that man again."

"Screw off," Connor mutters out of the side of his mouth, and then turns a hopefully winning smile on the pretty woman. He's not twenty-one anymore, he's not quite as good at holding his drink now. It makes him stumble and slur his words, and, deep down, he knows he's getting too old for nights like this.

"Connor, I am telling you that something will happen to you in these four weeks before Christmas, to help you realise who you've become," Wes says, and then grins suddenly, wryly, and adds, "You don't seem to like yourself very much. No one who likes themselves drinks this much vodka in a bar like this." And then he's serious again, that light-switch between Wes, his best friend, and Wes, his law partner. "Connor, I'm telling you that three ghosts will visit you before Christmas. They want to help you, not hurt you."

"Wes, you're dead," Connor says, and his voice is too loud, and the woman is taking his hand and leading him out of the bar, eyes full of concern as they flicker down the street, searching for an empty taxi. Tugging at her strong grip on his wrist, Connor shouts, "Stop haunting me and disappear again!" It's just drink. And guilt.

When he stumbles into his apartment, waving away the woman - Alicia, with big concerned blue eyes and strong arms - he immediately goes to the bathroom and empties his stomach, collapsing on the tiles with his coat still tangled around him. And then he turns around, and Wes is still there, shaking his head. "I'm not your imagination, Connor, I'm here and I'm real," he says, voice echoing slightly. "You need to wake up and see yourself, Connor. Three ghosts will visit you later."

"Like that fucking Dickens book?" Connor sneers, looking at the ghost through half-closed eyes, lying sideways on the floor. "Am I gonna fly like in the movie? God, Wes, just fuck off. Leave me to wallow in vodka." Staring at the wall again, he mumbles, "I'm so drunk right now."

And then he's aware of a cold presence over him, Wes' hand on his arm, hauling him to his feet. Ghosts aren't supposed to be able to do that, with the touching and the manipulating him. He's a solid, alive human, and Wes is a figment of his imagination. "You're a figment," he snarls, stumbling into the doorframe, and Wes steadies him.

"Whatever settles your mind until she arrives," he says, and guides him into the lounge, dumping him in an armchair and standing in wait, like a soldier looking for an order. As Connor watches him, curious at the way he shimmers at the edges, like he's flickering in and out of existence, or between two worlds, he begins to fret, constantly repeating, "Where is she?  _Where is she_?"

Connor almost falls out of his seat when another one walks through the door. She's a woman with long dark hair, a face he almost vaguely recognises, dressed for winter in a heavy coat and thick sweater. And she smiles at Wes, face lit up like the moon hanging beyond the window, and then her eyes close off, and she looks at Connor. "Sorry I'm late," she says. "Traffic was terrible."

 


End file.
